"foolscap" poems
Have you tasted jealously ?
its like a misshapen stomach
that swallowed jellied biros .
Are you lacking in choreography,
where your own walk
should be the more significant dance
rather than the musings of a foolscap fanatic.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 5:11 PM UTC
Poets, like doctors, know the anatomy of suffering... tearing the paper with rusty carving knives...
We see scarlet scratches and eggplant colored bruises on every square inch of foolscap... we open scars with words... stainless steel scalpels which we never sanitize...
We perform open heart surgery with blunt instruments... We cauterize the wounds with coals of Fire...
We are civil war sawbones, removing the gangrenous leg to save the body... Carrying out our task with whiskey bottle anaesthesia.
So have a care... The Doctor Is In.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/30/2016
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 11:43 PM UTC
bare it straight...
the knight-fool referenced here,
me, scrabbled, scrambled writer,
moat-surround builder,
petard hole-blower in walls of captivity.
letting those inside out,
letting those outside in...
all the beloveds from
ailments hurtful,
in and ex ternality
fearful of eternality
guise of knight errant,
salve and solve,
two pocket protectors,
needy, downtrodden, love-hurting,
slip inside and hide till ready
to come out on acceptable terms
entrapped, locked down and in,
show me the walls for to break,
make the solitary unobligatory
hands holding you will lead us,
all writ on clean new chance foolscap
open sourced coded for sharing
knock knock knock
come calling,
my calling...
to come...
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
the young egoist licks a blunt blade in the wall
until his tongue bleeds, to feel, yes to feel, feel anything
in these fettid depths where splinters of light
find themselves lost in the subterranean gloom
of his bedroom
where on occasion when it presents itself
listens to grotesques, yes listens with an ear
a plain nasty and unfeeling ear
yet it listens without any phoney, putrid arty language
he hears old irregular clocks
feels the smells under the ground
drinks unquenchable angers
citing their antique tonal ability
to create magic words out of rain and mist
then screaming his voice starts oozing and undulating
creeping through these slow subterranean pampas
compressing and expanding themselves never and at once
he believes it is an unsafe place of frighteningly sincere dangers
then thinks is danger a place, licks the blunt blade in the wall
for even in this desperation
it makes him happy when his tongue bleeds
he tries to perfect conventionally generous impulses
the spit of dreams, his dreams as he dons his mask
his mask of foolscap to write a poem
then encounters angel-devils and demons
who he has the power to deceive
and thinks to himself as he licks
the blunt blade in the wall
finish it, finish it
then realizes it's unfinishable
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
woven and webbed in but words,
our profits are handsome,
kindness, tenderness,
the gold coins minted internal,
that
overflow up above from
deeply hidden,
earthen-vaulted,
unchambered hearts
sovereign wealth sharing,
one country of two,
income equality,
now worded beyond just two mortals,
t'is my duty charged
and discharged,
to both hide~disguise and
expose,
how the treasure grows
alpha-bet oxygen-increased,
ever larger,
for now,
the cellular-total
the divided parts,
far exceed the original whole
these profits,
are but the
gotten gains
of mere dreamers,
that the night sweeper
shall remove, replace
scheduled near midnight,
easy taken, like daily dust
once fallen, and now used,
no longer available,
for writing poems
on the floor
but the atmosphere be
nugget laden, bejeweled motes,
freshly fallen dew to drink,
snow to inscribe with ungloved fingertips,
fresh foolscap,
upon to decorate
with letters of many tongues
new letters rearranged,
the dreamt profits
of which
are only realized
when shared
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 8:49 PM UTC
Foolscap
now I understand better,
the ironic humor of naming
the plain white paper before me,
where the construction commences,
the scratched surfaces, entrance ways into
the best I can hope to offer and having yet to write
foolscap
laugh out loud,
move over great ones,
this fool had tipped his cap,
betrayed his intention and attention,
he has a kitbag of raggedy jumbled words
as yet unassembled, and had all life to snap them
colored Lego pieces of his own design together in a way
that takes the un from unremarkable and so let this newbie
commencement be a beginning,
not an ending célèbre but a transition to
translating the heart and head and a storied vision
retained therein, treasure chested into an assemblage
pleasing to those who peek over the foolscap's shoulder
the snow has dappled doused my lower legs,
wet, does not creation commence in the wetness,
even slush that is the residue of the brilliance of snow
as a concept, even the slush, disdained and discarded,
***** grayed, from it will come my firsts, my births,
my ***** grayed, my beloved unbeloved,
sculpture of words that resound
across the better days to yet,
yet yet yet yet - a hundred
Yeats yets, sweet vets,
all I need is the first
word, so chosen,
so apropos,
foolscap
Foolscap - a type of inexpensive writing paper
Dedicated to those measured few here who have nurtured me with gentle pushes and sweet perfumed praise to push myself harder yet, push harder than I ever dared.
You know who you are.
Pray I please you.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/596769/poet-in-trouble/
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
The night sky stumbled, lost in thought
And caught up under slippered foot
By the scattered playthings of the dusk--
Pillows, tinsel, drifts of cotton wool, and
Brightly coloured sheets of fingerpainted
Foolscap paper. Gathering her haughty skirts,
Embroidered at the hem with silver coins
And lined with lightly patterned silk of
Deeply pleated royal blue, she turned an
Elegant and stately pirouette and flung her
Arms toward the bashful moon.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 2:39 AM UTC
In crowded halls, ivy clad, walk the sleepless zombies - the walking dead.
They’ve come to grapple, the chosen few, in trials by pen and pencil too.
Long ago we quietly agreed to trade studies and stress for a lives of ease.
The fire of competition burns within, a pyre fueled by challenge and adrenaline.
We’ve been grinding from morning’s light to dark midnight, fueled largely by tasty caffeine's bite.
Sleep’s a distant memory, that’s been swapped for all-nighters, notecards and highlighters.
Professors who’ve taught us now plant briar-like, trickster-questions, to fraught us.
Have we synthesized it all - the labs, lectures and quotes, the chapters, quizzes and notes?
The hours we’ve spent, dissecting texts, parsing equations, crafting essays - pay off now.
Or don’t - the clutter of fact, theory, and tensors will separate the scholars from the pretenders.
But fear not, dear reader, for we’re tough, seasoned cowgirls and this is just another rodeo.
True, we chew erasers not tobacco and ride desks or lab stations, not bucking broncos
But some are thrown, bruised and scarred - finding their future careers discarded.
We’re required to hand-write our test essays out, a trap that negates AI with age-old foolscap.
We know the challenge, we’ve studied and crammed, to tackle the hurdle of ‘top-tier’ exams.
Beyond the stress beacons the sweet release - of holiday parties and presents that please.
But perhaps the sweetest possible tease, is the promise of slumber and weeks study free.
Dec 10, 2023
Dec 10, 2023 at 10:54 AM UTC
***J'accuses
me,
that Stevie Rhymer
felony thievery, wholesale robbery,
of them blunts of good words,
and stashed the hiding fumes in my lungs
plead guilty,
with a Cool Hand Luke
studied pretense and a
huge ear to ear smirking of a
"who me"
innocence
it seems mucho unseemly,
bright pink tongue laughable,
stealing that chaste yellowed white chaff conceptual,
innocenctal,
cause i'm knowing it's well buried, lost-littered,
across the poppies of a poem-field
GPS mapped as
My Very Own Private Flanders
this one-night-only lynching of a yoga-flexible,
occasional reappearing conscience,
taking a short bow,
loosened by a
Manufactured in the USA,
cross-continental heat seeking arrowed
verbal verdict
soul and control,
two words that should rhyme,
but don't,
so in the valley of the bleached bones,
find me spending my last San Fran dime,
entrance fee to the accountant's confessional,
who greets me with a quizzical
why the hell are you prepaying this year's sin tax?
this confessing gig
awfully tiring,
like locating all those
?'s, periods and commas,
punk'd punchuation on the the keyboard,
of who you are
yeah, stole them all, them words,
burnt off the serial killing numbers,
now untraceable, masked in a thousand poems
that no one commissioned and barely read
in a vision,
i see my Barre gray gravestone appropriately blank,
steel cut smooth,
like a clean sheet of foolscap
an enterprising thief came along,
stole all the useful
Alphabets and numerals
to my vociferous silent applause
you see Stevie,
all those good words,
and literary hints from an over educated man,
ain't worth a good god ****
when u just lazy emoji these days
so take 'em, anyone,
great honor to me to see them
pray rise someone else's field,
in a new poem
by somebody else***
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
Thesaurus m-real
how do I complete ?
Cassell blinks through his A-Z
and ruminate an hour more.
I'm permanently stuck inside plain foolscap
whilst lexicographers twitter,
now assuredly crimson
shred my make Believe traces.
(The poem is about the mayhem of inventing a non existent word)
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 2:55 PM UTC
I sit here and look at the sea
Just about a half mile from me.
This boy born next to Kansas
Never knew what an ocean was.
As soon as I saw it in front of me
I was moved by the peaceful sea
As wide as my eyes could see
And thought of the word ‘serenity’.
All my problems, worldly concerns
Were pieces of foolscap I could burn,
Multicolor ashes I would soon learn
Would blow away in own their turn.
So here am I now, moved away
From the world of my young day,
Nearer to the end as they way.
This is where I choose to stay.
It took decades from now to then
To live by the sea, beach and wind.
I feel grateful for the world I’m in.
An amazing place for my tale to end.
So, I’m going to stay right here,
In this very comfortable year,
Without worry or the old fears.
Gazing at the sea, it’s right here.
This boy born next to Kansas
Never knew what an ocean was.
I sit here and look at the sea
Just about a half mile from me.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
-------------
| |
| |
| |
| |
-------------
hello, blank page.
you invite me to
fill your ******
surface with
the inky blemishes.
words of woe.
you've never known
pain. loss. heartache.
you've never known
hunger, want, or war.
never been *****
or pillaged.
denuded of all
grace and dignity,
until now.
but, no. I won't
wake you in this way.
blank page.
there you are, still.
I will not use a
forceful pen, now.
but the tender
strokes of love poetry.
you will blush
yourself to the shades
of a peach.
in a passionate, yet gentle,
hand will I take you to
******
perhaps i will, with
an expansive hand,
inform you of nature
or faraway places.
or with the greatest care
illuminate your barrenness
with the most beautiful
calligraphy.
fill your blandness
with great truth
and enlightened ******
beatific beauty
but for now
I only touch you,
and inform you of
your nakedness.
you've been willfully
ignorant.
you are,
after all,
only
FOOLSCAP
SøułSurvivør aka
writè of passage aka
Invisible inc
(C) 6/23/2017
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC